


On the rise and fall of empires

by Iambic



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M, Teacher/Student, modern day AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-18
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-10 06:18:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iambic/pseuds/Iambic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair's got a lot to learn about himself before he has any business accidentally seducing his history professor, but in typical Alistair fashion, he does it anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Opening Shots

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/328.html?thread=49480#t49480) at the Dragon Age kink meme, before it spiraled wildly out of control. Thanks to justaguywitharrows and vileplumage for the skillful beta.

Alistair's not really sure what possessed him to follow his roommate out to that gay bar last night, except, well, after the incident with those older ladies at his usual spot, he couldn't exactly go back there. And drinking alone is just sad. Plus, Leliana had asked so nicely, and she'd been down for a while about some breakup, and maybe she's a little weird but Alistair just doesn't say no to sad ladies asking him favours. 

It doesn't really matter. The bar was fine, the drinks were good, the butch bartender took pity on him the moment she saw whatever pathetic face he must have been making and introduced him to a bunch of her regulars who kept him occupied while Leliana was on the dance floor. That part had been fun. They liked his jokes and he liked that they didn't hit on him at all and things had been going great until the woman next to him stood up and waved to someone coming in.

Two words had never before filled him with such dread.

"Hey, Duncan!"

It could in theory have been anyone, but of course it hadn't been, of course it was Alistair's history of war professor who he'd been hero-worshiping for the past semester and who was now going to get the entirely wrong impression. Alistair panicked. Looking back, he can't actually remember saying much at all except a mumbled 'hello' and then some most likely terrible excuse. He'd told Leliana he was leaving, except she probably didn't hear because she was splayed across an incredibly buxom lady's lap and was familiarising herself with the inside of her new friend's mouth pretty enthusiastically. And then he'd fled.

And now he's back in Duncan's class and Duncan _smiled_ at him when he walked in, the smile of compatriots, and for five beautiful seconds it was the best moment of his life before he remembered why Duncan was smiling. Alistair has not stopped blushing since. The skin on his face is probably going to start peeling soon, there'll be second degree burns at least. And Duncan does this thing where he meets everyone's eyes as he lectures, makes sure they're included, and every time he meets Alistair's it's like Alistair's stomach has decided to go bungee jumping from his rib cage.

"You're staring, you know," says Zevran next to him, far more gleefully than he has any right to sound. And of course Alistair just blushes more because he _is_ staring. But he always pays close attention in class. It's just now become the kind of impending disaster he can't tear his eyes away from. And also Duncan has a really expressive face, brow lifting and falling and mouth stretching and smiling, visible even beneath the immense dark beard. He looks more like one of the medieval soldiers he's describing than a doctor of history and author of five books, all of which Alistair has read of course. And had signed.

"I am not staring, I'm paying attention," he whispers fiercely back, "unlike some of us."

"You stared out the window all of English 101," Zevran reminds him. He really needs someone to wipe that smirk off his face someday. Problem is he'd probably enjoy it. "Thekla had to actually move you to the center of the room before you paid attention."

"I like history." Now he's protesting too much and they both know it. Zevran's smirk is going to sprain something. 

"Oh, yes, you love history." Zevran winks, as if he's not being quite obvious enough with his obscene hand gestures. "You would love to spend long nights studying it, the passions of war, the cities put to flame, the rise and fall of empires and the clash of great civilisations, until one must dominate the other and insinuate itself deep within the first --"

"Alistair, is something the matter?" Duncan is looking their way, as well as a fair amount of the class, probably because they've never seen a human lobster before. Which is the joke Alistair would be making if he could get words to exit his mouth in an orderly fashion.

"Erraughmfin," he says. "I'm. Um. I'm fine. Sorry to interrupt."

Duncan does not look convinced. Zevran, in Alistair's peripheral vision, is shaking with suppressed laughter. The earth, despite his most desperate pleas, continues to refuse to swallow him up where he sits. “If you’d like to speak to me after class...”

“That sounds like a good idea,” says Zevran, before Alistair can embarrass himself further but also before he can decline. “I believe my friend is in need of some... guidance.”

The earth remains silent as before when Alistair revises his pleas to instead have Zevran swallowed up.

Class passes in a blur, Alistair’s notes are absolutely indecipherable, and this is probably going to be on the midterm, god, what is wrong with him. He can’t stop looking up at Duncan but has to look away super fast before they actually meet gazes. His heart is hammering heavy bass and when Zevran pushes at his shoulder he jumps in his seat. “Up you get,” Zevran says, grinning, “you have some _history_ to discuss.”

Alistair stands but doesn’t move from the desk as the classroom empties out, not until he hears the door thunk shut and then silence. He looks up into Duncan’s concerned face and swallows. What is he doing? He should have just left. Now he’s going to have to explain himself and how does he even start there?

 _No, I’m fine, it’s just that now you probably think I’m gay so it’s awkward that I admire you so much. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, being gay I mean. Sorry I couldn’t pay attention because I was too busy pretending not to stare at you. Sorry Zevran is such a bastard, this could have been less awkward if he hadn’t opened his big mouth, it’s just that he thinks I have a huge thing for you._  
Before Alistair can figure what of any of that is actually worth saying -- before he can give up and run away -- Duncan sits down on his own desk, facing Alistair, and smiles while managing to retain his air of concern. “Alistair, I hope you know that whatever you may be struggling with, as your teacher I am happy to listen and offer my advice, should you desire it.”

“I. Uh.” Yes, Alistair, master of eloquence. “Thanks.”

After a moment of Alistair not babbling -- real accomplishment there -- Duncan apparently realises he’s not getting anything else. “Is there something you wanted to talk about?”

“No, no no no, I’m -- I mean, there isn’t -- not that I don’t -- um.” 

Duncan sighs heavily. “I had hoped that our encounter last night wouldn’t have rattled you so much. Will it be a problem for you, that I am a gay man?”

The words barely register at first, and then Alistair wants to laugh and also slap himself across the face because of all the things he could have chosen to freak out about it didn’t even occur to him that seeing Duncan in a gay bar could mean that Duncan himself was. Well. Alistair compromises by shoving both hands into his short untamed hair with as much violence as he can muster. “Oh god no, that’s not it at all, I didn’t even think--”

Alistair stops because he realises he’s about to admit that he was afraid Duncan would think he was gay, and then he has to wonder why he’s afraid of that, especially if Duncan is gay in the first place and probably wouldn’t have a problem. Not that Alistair is. Except that he’s been staring at Duncan and blushing all class and Zevran seemed to think that was a sign, and if he’s being honest with himself -- _oh god_ \-- he would really not mind getting up close and personal with Duncan’s beard, or his large hands and well-muscled arms and these are really not heterosexual things to be thinking about his rather male history professor.

But it makes sense in a way, because everything else about Duncan is incredible and it stands to reason that he’d also be really attractive, and Alistair just hadn’t noticed before because he’s just so incredibly dense.

“I just,” he says, “I don’t want this to be awkward.” A pause. “Guess I’m doomed to disappointment.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Duncan replies, “but you’ve certainly made that happen already.”

“You’re, um,” and Alistair’s blushing again, oh god, this is getting worse by the second, why is he still even talking, “just a really fantastic teacher and I admire you so much and I don’t want you to think that I -- to think that I’m --”

This time, Duncan waits for him to finish. Deep breath, Alistair. “I didn’t know until, you know. Today. But, blast it all, I think Zevran’s right. He thinks I’m,” another deep breath, “gay. Or, I don’t know, open. Last night at the bar I was just there with a friend because she had a bad breakup and she didn’t want to go alone and last time I went out to the place I usually go these two ladies started hitting on me and. That’s completely off topic.”

But Duncan just nods along like it all makes perfect sense. “So it seemed easier just to go to her usual spot and be wingman for the night, and it’s not like I’m... looking for anything... not that I don’t want to! I just. Well. You know. Haven’t? But then I was there, and you showed up, and I...”

“Had not been anticipating meeting anyone you knew there?” Duncan asks. His dark brows are beginning to unknit. Maybe this is all actually making sense to him after all. Maybe it’s actually going to be fine. Alistair takes a step forward, so he’s in the front row of desks. Losing the shield. Duncan won’t hurt him, could never do anything wrong.

“If you thought I was, I don’t know, sick or something, wrong, I just.” Alistair’s hands clench into fists involuntarily. “But you don’t. I’m assuming. Do you?”

Duncan looks at him for a long moment and Alistair is almost afraid again that Duncan will find him disgusting just because, just because he should, anyone less perfect would -- but then Duncan just steps down from his desk, arms open, and he says, “God, Alistair, no, there’s nothing wrong with you at all.”

In the moment of stepping forward again he only meant to hug Duncan or just shake him by the hand, something like that, innocent, pure gratitude. But he steps too close and Duncan’s face is right there and somehow Alistair ends up pushing up against him, lips smashing together, tongue and teeth inexpertly at Duncan’s closed mouth before his brain catches up and he steps back.

“Um,” says Alistair. “Are you sure?” 

Duncan is rubbing his lips thoughtfully; it should not be nearly so appealing. Fuck. Alistair just kissed his history professor after apparently coming out to him after spending the entire class having an identity crisis and he has the most confused boner ever and the worst part is Duncan knows all of this. 

But all Duncan says is, “Ah.” 

This is, against all prediction of the impossibility of such a thing, rapidly going even further downhill. Alistair sits heavily down on one of the front row desks and returns his face to his hands because he’s definitely in danger of second degree burns again and he can’t look up and see the pity or the disgust or whatever he’s going to see, the point is, he can’t see it. Someone outside is yelling, there’s a siren somewhere far off, his heart is still pounding too hard, and then Duncan’s hand is on his shoulder.

“You must know that sexual or romantic relations between students and faculty are often frowned upon,” Duncan says, gravely, and this is even worse because here comes the lecture. Alistair gulps and chances a quick glance up -- and stares, because Duncan is smiling, Duncan has apparently just said something amusing to him. Something awful like hope is beginning to build in the battered depths of Alistair’s ribcage.

He musters his courage and says, as calm as he can, “Well, I wasn’t going to tell the administration that I. Um.”

“That we kissed?” Duncan asks, and Alistair is a fool and an idiot but even he recognises the significance behind that we. Hope has moved up from the bottom of his ribcage to clog his throat and bounce around in his brain and he very carefully places his hands palms down on his thighs.

“Your secrets are safe with me.” Deep breath in, swallow, exhale. “Can we do it again?”

That throws Duncan, his smile slipping off and eyes going momentarily wider before he settles again. But his gaze is on Alistair’s hands, and Alistair is suddenly nervous all over again, but it’s a different kind of nervous -- an electrical charge down his arms, over his legs. He licks his dry lips. Duncan hasn’t responded yet as Alistair moves his hands down onto the desk and pushes himself back onto his feet and right into Duncan’s space. If he’s doing this, he’s not going to halfass it. Either he goes down in flames, or. Or.

Or Duncan brings up a hand to bracket Alistair’s jaw, thumb rubbing against untamed stubble, and smiles again. He pulls Alistair in so that Alistair has to step forward or fall against him, and then they’re kissing again, only this time Duncan’s mouth is open and he’s still holding Alistair’s head, now in both hands, and Alistair is pushed up so tight against him that the seams of his jeans dig painfully into his waistline and he can feel of both their hearts, sped up and growing faster.

He goes to pull at his waistband, rearrange the creases into something more comfortable, but he finds the line of skin that Duncan’s shirt has pulled up to reveal instead, and he follows that with his fingers, pressing against hard muscle and hipbone. Duncan shudders and breaks the kiss to look Alistair dead in the eye. “Do you know what you’re doing?” he asks, as if this is another class.

Alistair shakes his head, hands gone still under Duncan’s shirt. “I’ve never,” he says, and the rest of the sentence dies on his tongue.

But Duncan’s grip tightens for a moment, fingers clenching in Alistair’s close-cropped hair. “What do you want?” His voice, thus far even and controlled, rumbles with something dangerous.

“I,” says Alistair, pausing to swallow, “generally speaking? Would really like to keep kissing you, and, um, as for the rest, I don’t really know how it goes exactly but I would. Like to find out.” Duncan’s fingers are moving across his scalp and Alistair’s hair stands up and shivers in the short-cropped area on the back of his neck. There’s some kind of terrible embarrassing sound building up in the back of his throat and he has to shut his mouth and clamp down on it. But he keeps meeting Duncan’s eyes.

“Alistair,” begins Duncan. He shuts his eyes for a moment and then sighs. His fingers still in Alistair’s hair. “Do you trust me?”

How could that even be in question? But if it means keeping this -- keeping Duncan -- well, Alistair’s willing to answer pretty much any question, and there’s a fair amount he’d do besides. He spent enough time not knowing he even wanted this, but now that he knows what he’s been missing...

“Of course I trust you.”

There’s that strained look on Duncan’s face again, tightening the corners of his mouth, like Alistair’s said the wrong thing. Or maybe there’s nothing that could have convinced him. Except that Duncan’s hands are moving again, sliding down to the back of Alistair’s neck, and Alistair’s breath hitches and oh god they’re close again, close enough that he can feel the warmth of Duncan’s mouth too close to his own.

“Tell me to stop, and I will,” Duncan says, voice tight, and then he leans forward to claim Alistair’s mouth again. Stopping is the furthest thing from Alistair’s mind now, as he returns his own hands to the warm skin and hard muscle of Duncan’s back, his overdry fingers catching on the inside of Duncan’s shirt. This time Duncan takes control of the kiss, turning them around until Alistair is trapped against his desk, tongue and teeth worrying at Alistair’s lower lip, thumbs ghosting along Alistair’s jugulars. Alistair never thought of his history of war professor as someone dangerous, but cornered and defenseless as he is now, Duncan really could do anything to him. And somehow that is the most painfully arousing thought of all. 

They break apart too soon, but Alistair gets out no more than a noise of protest before Duncan’s teeth are at his jaw, and his protest becomes something else entirely. And then he’s laughing, a helpless, breathless kind of thing, because here he is in his history classroom getting -- ravished by his history professor -- hardly an hour after realising this was something he wanted. Alistair, the only virgin he knows this far into his freshman year, and yet here he is. Until today he even thought he was straight.

“Are you --” Duncan begins, pulling back, but Alistair grabs the back of his pants and tugs him forward, shaking his head fervently.

“No,” he says, and, “please.”

The sound Duncan makes isn’t even close to words, and he pushes them both into the desk, toppling a stack of papers, and it doesn’t even give them pause. He lets go Alistair’s neck but only to address the buttons of Alistair’s shirt, which hadn’t even occurred to Alistair as a problem before but now every single tug is a deep frustration, even -- or especially -- with Duncan’s mouth against his neck, sucking and biting, beard scratching against the delicate skin there. 

Alistair’s shirt comes off and suddenly it sinks in that oh god he’s already half undressed and oh god Duncan’s hands on his unprotected skin and shouldn’t he be terrified by how fast this is going? But he’s so hard it hurts and the last thing he wants is to slow down and if that means getting off right here against this desk then that’s what’s happening. Duncan’s right hand is at the buttons of his jeans. The light pressure still sends a jolt all the way through him. 

That makes Duncan chuckle, deep and low this close together, and he retreats again to pull his own shirt over his head. Alistair has to stare -- yeah, Duncan looks like one of the figures out of his lectures about medieval combat in general, but he’s built, wall-solid, power personified. And he gets to touch this -- this man wants him, somehow -- some kind of euphoric lightness jumps up from his chest and he’s not sure if he wants to laugh or sob or something even more drastic than that, so he buries his face into Duncan’s shoulder and inhales the smell of him. On instinct he turns his head so that he can mouth the side of Duncan’s neck in tentative imitation of Duncan’s earlier ministrations, and this earns him a quick gasp. Encouraged, Alistair brushes his teeth against the skin, and then cautiously bites.

The response is immediate; Duncan shoves him down onto the desk, following just behind and pinning his arms. “You won’t hurt me,” he says, voice a throaty growl, and so Alistair leans forward and bites again, harder, at his collarbone. Duncan hisses a breath and grinds his hips down, and oh god if the pressure in Alistair’s groin was bad before, it’s so much stronger now. In the midst of all this sensation he thinks, get these off. His arms are pinned but he can still feebly push at his waistband until Duncan catches on.

“You’re sure?” Duncan asks, but then he’s kissing Alistair on the mouth again and releasing his arms. No point in answering the question with words; Alistair presses up against him and reaches for the top button. Duncan gets there first, knocks Alistair’s hand away, and then fumbles with the top button. The proximity of his hand to Alistair’s crotch, even with pants still on, is another burst of adrenaline, another throb of arousal. In comparison to the speed Alistair’s shirt was discarded, Duncan takes achingly long with each button, and Alistair can’t help but thrust against his hand, which makes Duncan laugh again. “Impatient,” he says, and Alistair huffs into his shoulder. “There’s time for that,” he adds, and it’s not fair, how calm Duncan seems right now.

But then Alistair’s pants are loosened and Duncan pushes him all the way into a sitting position on the desk and then deals with his own slacks, which come off much faster, and then they are definitely almost completely naked, Alistair’s jeans and briefs down around his shoes and Duncan stepping out of his discarded slacks, and wow, Duncan is actually turned on by this. By him. Maybe it shows in his face, because Duncan reaches for his face again and kisses him, more softly than before, and only then steps up to press their bodies together. 

The contact is electric, and Alistair’s making noises he never thought people actually made. The friction against his cock -- the pressure to one side that is Duncan’s -- it’s far more intense than anything he’s ever done to himself. If not for Duncan holding him in place, he could not have possibly remained balanced atop the desk, but those strong arms leave him no room to fall. He’s caught, but he’s also safe, as Duncan’s hands wander lower over his back, to cup his ass, and then --

“I’m going to turn you around,” Duncan murmurs, and then that glorious contact is cut off as he spins Alistair around to press him face down against the desk. Alistair starts to protest, but his hands come up to stroke Alistair’s hardened nipples, and Alistair chokes off to silence. Duncan’s cock is hard against Alistair’s thigh, and his own pushes painfully into the side of the desk until Duncan pulls them both upright.

“Lean against me,” he says into Alistair’s ear, “I’ve got you, you’re all right.”

Duncan's hands are at his hips, pressing hard enough there there might be bruises later, and then he's thrusting between Alistair's thighs, pressing up against his balls and oh god, no one ever told him about this. He gasps and Duncan chuckles low and rumbling in his ear, through his chest. 

"Comfortable?" Duncan murmurs in his ear, one hand easing its pressure and sliding lower, down Alistair's hipbone, and how is Alistair supposed to answer like this? He's so hard he's quivering, and Duncan sure and strong between his legs is nothing he was ever prepared for, this feeling, nothing he ever imagined. 

Then Duncan's hand is around his cock, stroking in time with his continuing thrusts, and Alistair arches back against him, mouth falling open, breathing hard against Duncan's throat. Unsure what to do with his own hands, he brings one to rest on Duncan’s, pumping his own cock, and holds onto Duncan with the other, because his knees are giving out on him and now it makes sense why people do this on beds, where they’re already lying down, except why he would want to be anywhere but right here, shoved up against Duncan’s desk, is completely lost on him. 

He groans into the mounting pleasure, and then with a few more brisk strokes he’s over the edge, coming in a spurt on the desk and several hopefully unimportant papers. His legs actually give out them, and he sags against Duncan with an embarrassingly high-pitched sigh. In response, Duncan’s thrusts speed up, and soon Duncan has come all over the insides of Alistair’s thighs and it’s somehow still the best thing ever.

Dazed, he’s still leaning against Duncan, and only realises when Duncan pulls back and then has to throw his arms out to catch Alistair as he topples. “Are you all right?” he asks, and then Alistair makes the mistake of looking into his face.

All of a sudden he realises what they’ve just done. What he’s just done. It was one thing when he was thinking with his dick but this is -- his history professor -- this is _Duncan_ \-- and he just saw Alistair curled over a desk making obscene noises with his jeans around his ankles and oh my god he just had sex, for the first time, with his professor --

\-- he’s got the evidence all over his legs --

\-- he _enjoyed_ it, even. Enjoyed being bent over and jerked off, enjoyed being held down by a man at least twice his age if not more and for all intents and purposes fucked in a classroom, where anyone could have seen -- 

\-- and he’d do it again.

Oh god.

“I,” he says, panic rising in his chest, scrabbling to pull his pants up, glancing wildly around for his shirt, “I have to go.”

“Alistair,” Duncan begins, and he sounds _concerned_ , and Alistair almost freezes because maybe Duncan would kiss him but. But no, he can’t, this is already too much. He grabs his shirt and doesn’t even put it on, just runs for the door.

_What have I done?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair has second thoughts. And third thoughts.

An hour later finds Duncan still at his desk, clothed again by now and with nothing to show for his earlier indiscretion but the smell of disinfectant and the bite on his pulse that Alistair left behind. His head in his hands, he only looks up occasionally to check the time. One hour. He can still feel Alistair flush against him and taste the faint salt lingering at his lips and --

He's made such a terrible mistake.

Foolish, to allow his desires to get the best of his rational thought. His job could be in jeopardy, but worse, he's taken advantage of a young man who trusted him so wholeheartedly and who relies on him for education and guidance, and Duncan repaid him for that trust by acting as irresponsibly as any student here might have. At his age and with his level of professional experience, he's supposed to be past this kind of temptation. He's supposed to know where boundaries lie, and how to ensure that they are never crossed.

The panic in Alistair's face at the end, just before he fled, was all that needed to be said. No matter his assurance that he was ready, Duncan should have relented. But he was only human, and Alistair was so very willing and near -- and untouched until now, oh lord -- was more than he could resist. Perhaps more than any man could.

But that doesn't make it right. And it doesn't give him an excuse to have failed as a responsible figure of authority.

Duncan drops his face into his hands and sighs. Somehow he’ll have to repair the damage he’s done.

\--

In some kind of miserably panicky haze, Alistair loses track of the walk to the bus stop or the bus ride back to the dorms, and comes back to himself with the security guard raising her perfectly penciled eyebrows at him. She hands back his library card without a word, and Alistair blushes and pulls his wallet out again to hand her his student ID instead.

“Long day?” she drawls.

Alistair winces. “Uh, yeah, let’s call it that.”

He shuffles numbly past the elevators and takes the stairs up three flights instead. They’re deserted -- not much dorm traffic this time of day, everyone’s usually gone -- so no one’s there to witness him tripping over the goldenrod warning strip at his landing, or hear the ensuing thud echo down the concrete stairwell. Alistair stays where he is for a moment. It’s only the stickiness on his legs that reminds him he has to get up if only to take a shower that pulls him to his feet and through the door into the hall.

Sten is waiting inside. He's the kind of roommate who isn't actually bad to have, in that he doesn't throw loud parties before finals week or keep Alistair up with a love life, but he's also kind of unsettling. He's apparently spent the last two years in the army and now he's getting a linguistics degree or something? But he just sort of looks at you and it's not like he can see right through you but more like he's waiting for you to get out of the way of the more important blank space behind you. Alistair's tried at least seven times to make conversation and every time Sten shuts him down faster and more effectively than Morrigan could ever hope to achieve. At least the third member of their three-man dorm room has something to add to a discussion, even if it’s just “There’s nothing good about any morning, _ever_.”

Hey, at least Fenris _tries_.

Alistair doesn't say anything as he walks in this time, though -- not that Sten would really care what he does (or who, oh god) in his spare time, but meeting anyone's eyes is really more than he can deal with right now. So it figures that Sten isn't actually staring down a textbook or a blank page but is in fact seated _facing the door_. His eyes are inescapable. Like.... a pair of really tiny powerful vacuums. His perpetual frown grows a little frownier when Alistair freezes in place in the doorway.

"...You are not who I expected."

Also he has this weird dislike for contractions. It must be a linguist thing.

"Sorry, just grabbing some stuff, gonna go take a shower. Enjoy your social life! Tell it hello for me!" Alistair smiles as wide as he can manage but he probably looks more than a little manic. Sten, bless him forever, probably doesn't even care.

"I will," he says. After a moment more of staring, Alistair sort of trapped under his gaze like a large awkward Alistair-shaped butterfly pinned to a card, Sten adds, "Enjoy your shower."

And then he looks down again and choirs of angels come down to sing and the clouds outside open up to sun and rainbows and doves burst into flight, and in all the commotion Alistair manages to grab clean clothes and soap and a towel. Crisis averted.

"I, um," he replies, clutching his possessions to his chest, "I will too! Going now!"

He backs out of the room with the best smile he manage for Sten's piercing stare and nearly trips on the door on his way out. Once balanced, he all but runs down the hall to the bathrooms.

This time of day there's no one in the showers, and no one has to see Alistair’s blush striking back, or wonder about him wearing his jeans in. Or jumping out two seconds later to place his wallet on top of the pile of clean clothes outside. He still breathes a sigh of relief when he’s safely hidden in the stall and can see to cleaning himself up after.

After.

He shuts his eyes and scrubs at them as if it could somehow erase what he’d just done, or at least keep him from thinking about it. But it doesn’t work, of course, and he has to eventually uncover his eyes to unbutton his jeans -- a feat made more difficult by the amount of water that’s soaked into the denim by now. It had looked so easy when Duncan had --

This is getting him nowhere good. Alistair manages two buttons and then yanks his jeans and briefs down, letting them soak on the shower matting while he scrubs at his sticky thighs. Generous application of soap does the trick, but even after there’s not a trace left he can still feel it. His stomach does a few flips, putting his own hands where Duncan touched him. Even the act of cleaning doesn’t feel innocent anymore. And oh god, there he goes again, getting hard as if one mortifying sexual experience wasn’t enough for one day.

Well, this time he’s going to demonstrate some self-control. He may have already let his history professor fuck him up against a desk, but he’s not going to jerk off to it immediately afterward. Resolute, he clamps his jaw shut and reaches for the shampoo.

He manages washing his hair with no incident, and even washing his chest and back, but he just keeps hearing Duncan breathing in his ear and feeling the ghost of that warmth at his back, the pressure between his legs -- no, but that’s real enough. Alistair groans and bashes his head against the shower wall. Okay, may as well just get this over with. Get some release, and then  maybe he can go the rest of the day without being too distracted. He’ll just -- clear his mind, get off as quick as he can, then finish up in here and go work on something academic.

His hands tremble a bit as he reaches for the conditioner, and a jolt of adrenaline hits his chest as he squeezes out more than would normally go into his hair. Anticipation. It’ll kill him someday. Half the conditioner goes into his hair, and then with hands still slick he tentatively touches himself.

The resolution to keep his mind clear dissolves as quickly as shampoo; it’s way too easy to remember Duncan’s hand stroking him instead, and the hot water lifts the smell of him from Alistair’s skin to fill his nose. The steam enfolding him could be Duncan’s chest against his back. Alistair squeezes his eyes shut and turns his face into the shower stream and makes this pathetic whimpering sound. But he keeps stroking, tentative at first, then picking up force.

It’s over far sooner than with Duncan, and he’s left with slimy residue on his hands that rinses off in the water and a lingering nervous guilt.

\--

He makes it through the better part of the rest of the day without having to talk about it, or talk at all for the most part -- gets a few weird looks for it, but he gets weird looks pretty regularly anyway -- but of course the solace can’t last. And predictably it’s Hawke that breaks his streak, because Hawke is the best at being in the wrong place at the right time.

Hawke’s got a first name, but no one ever uses or remembers it, because he just reminds everyone in the faculty of his dad and after a few too many unfortunate “Malcom”s he just switched to his surname. His primary goal in life is to get involved in everyone’s business and unfortunately he’s somehow managed to acquire the notion that Fenris is his friend, and therefore everyone in Fenris’ life deserves special attention.

Alistair is really only on the fringe of Fenris’ life, but that apparently doesn’t deter Hawke in the slightest. At least Hawke _means_ well, unlike certain other meddlers in his life.

“I never saw anyone run out of Duncan’s class that fast,” Hawke informs him, no preamble whatsoever, catching him just outside the meal hall.

Alistair jumps, and maybe yelps a little. Hawke shouldn’t be able to sneak up on anyone what with the way he galumphs around everywhere, but yet, every time. “What, are you following me now?”

“No, I was looking for Isabela, she hangs out with Zevran a lot, I remembered Zevran complaining about Duncan’s class because he didn’t want to actually care about any of his freshman year classes in case they distracted him from all the seducing he had planned.” Hawke shrugs and makes that face that everyone makes when they talk about Zevran, the _you know, like he does_ face. Hawke’s version isn’t as expressive as Leliana’s, who manages to curl her upper lip at the exact angle to lift one nostril just a fraction and align it perfectly with the direction her eyes roll, but nor is it as frightening as Sten’s, which is just a different version of _I’m probably going to kill him if he keeps talking to me_. Sometimes Alistair wonders if people make that face when they talk about _him_. Sten probably does, anyway.

“You missed him by... a while,” Alistair says, and there he goes, blushing again. Damn his complexion. Hawke will never suffer this problem both because his dark skin doesn’t go blotchy pink in embarrassment, and also because he has never been embarrassed in all the time anyone has known him.

Hawke smirks and crosses his arms. He’s totally blocking Alistair’s way and chances of escape seem minimal. One third of the university’s gossip-running institution. Goodbye, dignity. “Alistair, you’re going to lose a lot of money if you ever get into gambling, I just think you should know.”

“What?” His voice sort of squeaks at little bit. Had he a kingdom, Alistair would happily trade it for anyone but Hawke to be standing in front of him right now. Maybe Sten again. Or even Morrigan, who would give him that _who left their trash out again_ look but probably never even think to interrogate him about his departure from Duncan’s classroom.

“You’re blushing. So. The question is, why?” Hawke starts ticking fingers off against his upper arm. “You’re not having a sordid affair with Zevran, because he’d have boasted about it at least to Isabela, and she’d have told me. You’re not failing Duncan’s class, because you’re totally infatuated with him and you’d never actually let that happen even if it meant sexually pleasuring him for a better grade... oh, no,” he cuts himself off, as god help him, Alistair’s face heats up even more. “Wait. You _didn’t._ Alistair.”

“That would be _cheating_ ,” Alistair protests before he can think properly about what exactly he’s getting accused of here.

“Right, what am I thinking,” says Hawke, “I forgot you were incapable of doing anything remotely fun for people over the age of ten.”

It’s friendly ribbing, that's just how Hawke is, but Alistair flashes back to Duncan's classroom and flinches. His head goes all light, and -- no he can't start actually thinking about it right now, especially not in front of Hawke, or anyone, ever. A hermit's life is looking pretty good. Or being ten forever.  That could actually work and he could stop wanting to go back and get pressed up against Duncan's desk again, and. He's still not doing very well at not thinking about it.

Unfortunately Hawke is in prime spectating turf, and his eyes light up like a kid on Christmas. The juicy detail detectors are probably all going off in sequence in his brain. Actually by now he's probably telepathically signaled to Varric and Isabela and they should be homing in any second now to interrogate Alistair further and then write about it in their gossip rag. "Wait, you look practically _guilty_ , what _happened_?"

"Nothing," Alistair says, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I'm incapable of fun for real people, remember?"

"Oh, you know I didn't mean that." Hawke doesn't do apologies. He probably hasn't apologised to anyone for any of the trouble he's gotten them into since Alistair's known him, which isn't that long but the other thing about Hawke is that even though he never spills his own juicy secrets, he's the kind of huge personality that sort of speaks for itself. "Besides, kids are real people. You gonna spill?"

Hawke's probably going to find out eventually because he's psychic or has cameras installed in strange places or he'll be visiting Fenris at weird times of the night and luck will have Alistair dreaming about it and he'll hear, but that day doesn't have to be today. It's just going to be probing questions until then, and if Hawke doesn't get his answer he'll start asking other people and eventually everyone will wonder.

But that's not right now. Maybe, for once in his life, Hawke will give up on getting into someone's business. And Alistair isn't going to find out because he's already sidestepped out of the way and bolted into the dinner hall.

He doesn't get far on his own. He's only just slid into a seat at an abandoned booth when Leliana, waving excitedly, spots him and trots over with her own tray. She sits down midway through Alistair's first bite and doesn't seem to mind that his mouth is full. "I'm so sorry I abandoned you last night," she says, brow knit in a picture of sincerity. Which is probably because she means it, actually, Leliana's not the sort to make petty gestures like that. "After I dragged you out with me and everything! I hope you made it home all right."

Alistair chews his potato three more times and then swallows it only somewhat whole, and it settles in an awkward lump about halfway to his stomach. "Just had to fight off a couple bands of muggers bare-handed, you know, the usual."

"Ah, yes, of course." Leliana smiles very small and polite. She never gets his jokes. "Oh! But I saw that professor you like so much. Duncan, yes? How funny that he would show up at the same bar as us! I wonder if he's a regular."

Midway through taking a large gulp of water to wash down that potato, Alistair chokes, and nearly spits it out all over her. Leliana frowns as he claps a hand to his mouth and swallows frantically.  "Is everything all right?" she asks, and Alistair, red-faced, nods and holds up his free hand as he gets his composure back.

"Let's just... not talk about Duncan right now," he says, the _please please please_ going unvoiced but heavily implied.

"That sounds like a story." Leliana only winks at him when Alistair's face starts shifting into the now-familiar position of panic. "Okay, maybe later."

\--

That night Alistair can't sleep, tossing back and forth on the hard dorm mattress, distracted even without thinking about why. He watches headlights and their shadows pass by at intervals from the streetside window, listens to Sten's even snore and Fenris' unintelligible muttering. He's never had trouble sleeping, really, so he hadn't realised his roommates could be so _loud_. Is it because they don't use up all their talking during the day? Or is this normal, and Alistair just doesn't have the experience to know? He was always the first to fall asleep at sleepovers when he was a kid, and Eamon and Isolde sure never took him on trips where he'd hear _them_ sleeping.

Just another thing he probably should've learned before leaving for college. Right up there with standing up to people who disagree with him and managing his own money. And what to do when he wants to kiss someone, although -- and here he can't stop the grin that pulls across his face -- he figured that one out pretty quick.

He's sort of dismayed with himself for a moment. Hasn't he been panicking about this very thing all day? Except it was pretty great at the time, wasn't it. If Alistair forgets for a moment that Duncan is his professor, and just remembers how encouraging he is, how _attractive_. How good with his hands. It never occurred to Alistair to think he might be interested in men but. Despite the enormity of the prospect it doesn't seem physically like such a big deal anymore. If he's gonna be honest about it, he can't really imagine what it was like not being interested in Duncan. Maybe he always was and he just didn't get it.

So he sighs, closes his eyes again. Duncan's scent has clung to him even through the shower, more of a ghost than a lingering cloud, and it brings the memories sharply to mind: Duncan's warm hands against his jaw, the bite of the edge of the desk against the back of his thighs. The careening rush of adrenaline. His heart pounds again in memory, but it's the endorphines rushing back to his brain this time, and Alistair smiles again. He lets himself keep it. Something for the moment.

He doesn't remember waking up but suddenly Fenris is clomping around, walking into his dresser and desk, and sunlight floods through the window. Good morning, world. There's still a smile on Alistair's lips and for a moment he doesn't remember, just basks in it.

Of course the context comes back quickly enough -- he's not exactly a morning person, but he isn't useless without a shot of caffeine to the brain like Fenris, who's now reaching blindly for the shades to tilt them shut. Alistair rolls over and free of his blankets and takes two leaping steps to the other side of the window, where the adjustment rod actually hangs. Fenris blinks at him, confusion in his momentarily unguarded features, but Alistair is already turning back to his own dresser, pulling clothes free without looking at what he's grabbing. He has to come back twice, once to replace his extra shirt with underwear, a second time to grab his shampoo.

No class this early, but there's a fire burning in his brain, and he's got to do something before it dies again. Something, which will probably be stupid and at best a good story in about ten years, like most of his most memorable split-second stunts. But then again, there's been exceptions to that rule before. There could be again.

He's in and out of the shower like a shot, aided by a bracing lack of warm water. His hair probably still has suds in it but he jumps out when he can't take the cold and the pressure anymore, hopping on one foot as he dries each leg in turn, shoving his feet into pants still damp, his hair dripping down his face and neck. At the last moment he decides to brush his teeth after all, and he rushes that too, scratching his gums until they bleed. It'll heal. His mouth rings metallic with it, but he barely tastes it. He can't smell Duncan anymore. But maybe, if he plays his cards right --

Somehow the discomfort vanished overnight, or even before he fell asleep. Yesterday's tension and panic hangs waiting in the hallway, but it just washes over him, and when his pulse picks up over breakfast it's because he remember the slide of his fingers underneath Duncan's sweater and he nearly chokes.

Ian Cousland, who's sitting nearby with his perpetual partner in crime -- or at least, academic success -- Cassan Surana, looks over with raised eyebrows. "Don't die," he warns, eyes and voice serious as he ever usually gets. "It's not even midterms yet."

"Alistair's never making it to midterms at this rate." On someone else it might be a joke; Cassan could be serious. She's pretty much equally disdainful of everyone except, for some reason, Ian. Or Sten. They nod to each other in the hallways or something. Whatever those types do instead of exchanging friendly greetings. They sure don't eat breakfast, judging by Cassan's lonely cup of coffee and the fact that Sten hasn't shown his face in the dining hall once before noon. It's not that he sleeps in, either.

Cassan probably wouldn't be here if not for Ian.

Alistair takes another gulp of orange juice and sets that train of thought aside. There's not really any point wondering about the weird habits of his fellow freshmen and roommates; it's not as if he has any sort of business there anyway, and they're not the interesting kind of people who'll ever tell him if he's right. Instead, he says, "Thanks for the concern."

It makes Cassan scoff, as he probably should've predicted, but Ian cuts her off before she can say anything too nasty. "You're unusually chipper this morning," he says. "Usually it's just me and my ham all alone. And Cassan, but she doesn't really count for another couple hours." He grins when Cassan gives him the finger. "So what's got you so -- dare I say it -- bright eyed and bushy tailed today?"

Trust Ian to pick the weirdest turns of phrases. "Oh, uh, nothing." Alistair probably should've thought this one through. What does he say? It's supposed to be a secret, right? And yet somehow it's bursting in his chest; he has to speak or it's going to blow him up. And he's got a full two hours of general education mandated algebra before he can run off to Duncan's office and --

\-- and something, anyway.

"Just.. feeling good about life, you know," he finishes lamely, and Ian's eyebrows are probably going to disappear into his bangs if he keeps this up. They're making a good effort, anyway.

"Are you." Ian's grinning again, and Cassan rolls her eyes and stands up.

"Have fun gossiping," she says, voice dripping with all the disinterest she can muster, which is kind of a lot. She probably gets a lot of practice. She and Morrigan should hang out; they'd probably love each other. "I've got actual tasks to accomplish this morning." She tosses her hair and steps away, nearly running down another couple of students despite her comparatively small stature. When Alistair looks back at Ian, he's smiling this weird goofy tooth-hiding grin.

"Gotta love that kid," Ian sighs.

"I'll never understand what you see in her," Alistair tells him, shaking his head.

"So what's got you all bounced up anyway? That wasn't even close to a real answer."

It's probably a bad idea, but Ian's not a gossip like Hawke; he talks a lot, but it's usually about himself, or funny stories about parties he's gone to, not. Secrets. Scandal. And Alistair's holding onto this big bright story to tell and if his closest friend in the school can't keep it for him, who can?

"You can't talk about this," he says, and Ian's whole face lights up even more.

"Cross my heart," he swears, and makes the X over his chest to match. "Now spill, or so help me..."

Alistair takes a breath, and it freezes him. He has to shove it all out in a rush: "IkissedDuncanyesterday."

"You what."

Biting his lip for a moment -- now that he's said it once, suddenly he's seeing the people around him, a good two hundred plus residential students eating and talking all within earshot, and any one of them could stop talking and listen for a moment -- Alistair leans as close as he he can without being actually ridiculous. "I kissed. Duncan. Yesterday after class."

Ian shrieks. He actually does it. A good chunk of nearby students turn to look at him, and Ian claps one hand over his mouth and waves with the other, the classic gesture of "nothing to see here," which Alistair slowly burns crimson in his seat. "You -- oh my god," Ian says, a little quieter, "you did not."

"I did so," Alistair snaps, maybe a little excessively, but he's still calming down after that scare. "I was -- I stayed after class to talk to him about something. Which is to say, I went out to Leliana's new spot because she just broke up with what's her name and wanted someone to go with her, and Duncan was there, and maybe I panicked a little because it was a -- you know. A bar Leliana goes to."

"And you went for it? I didn't know you had it in you, hot damn." Ian narrows his eyes suddenly. "Wait," he adds, "how come you never told me you were a big ol' queer like me 'n Cassan? We got so many better places than Leliana's cougar dive. Unless -- shit, you probably like the cougar dive better anyway."

"Oh my god," Alistair says, face rapidly reaching melting point, "I wasn't, I mean, I didn't know, I don't want to go to any more of those, it was just..." He cuts off as Ian's face loses its careful composure and Ian coughs up a surprised bray of laughter. "You're making fun of me."

Ian waves his hand, calm down, calm down. "No, no, I swear, it's just that you're so inexperienced. It's cute, really. I bet you're a virgin, too."

If Alistair thought he was blushing bad before, it was nothing like he's blushing now. He slumps over in his seat in the hopes that maybe the heat of his embarrassment will make a nice pool of molten floor for him to sink into. And since at this point it's way too late to come up with a good lie, he mumbles, "Not anymore."

Silence. He looks up after a moment to a surprisingly thoughtful look on Ian's face, no trace of teasing at all. "You did go for it," Ian says after a few more seconds. "Huh. So what now? Was it just a one-of fling of uncontrollable passions, or have you got a study date, or what?"

"I don't know," Alistair admits. Without really thinking about it, his right hand's strayed to his hair, tugging on the front he'd teased up into spikes earlier. Now his fingers are gonna be all waxy, great. "I'm going to -- go talk to him. After lit class. Which, speaking of." He looks down at his battered watch. "I have to run."

"Tell me how it goes!" Ian calls after him, waving his cup of coffee.

If "it" meant literature class, Alistair has no idea; it passes by in a blur of readings and page numbers that Alistair is probably going to have to bribe Morrigan for next time he sees her; that's going to cost him dearly. Maybe that Merrill will take pity on him, she's been nice enough before, even if she gets on with the... witch herself. Maneater, like Zevran was humming that one time, only she probably wouldn't take kindly to being compared to a Hall and Oates song.

In theory almost two hours pass while he's staring blankly at the board, but he still hasn't figured out what he's going to say and it could have been ten minutes for all the time that seems to pass. Hi, Duncan, so yesterday we kind of... which is to say, I'm not sure what happened, but would you want to... I don't know very much, but I didn't mean to panic, and can we...

He finds himself staring at his desk; around him, his classmates pack up their notes and file out of the classroom, while Dr Joyce switches off the projector and returns to the desk at the front of the room. He's written about two lines, one of which trails off about halfway through. All in all an extremely productive class. Alistair shoves his notebook into his bag and slinks out before Dr Joyce notices him, just in case she's somehow missed how completely inattentive he was -- possible, considering how certain other individuals in his class seem to be doing just fine. Then again, it's not like Hawke scrapes by without notice -- but not everyone can be that charming.

It'd help. Alistair's shuffling out the door and he still doesn't know what the hell he's going to say. His mind goes horribly blank as he walks slowly down the hall, overtaken by overeager freshman and jaded upperclassmen, just now heading off to their first classes if they're not totally overcome by their fields of study. Duncan's office is only one floor down. He stretches it out to five minutes, taking tiny steps, but it's still all too soon when he draws near that friendly brass and linoleum sign. Office hours, eleven to two-thirty pm.

Alistair swallows, resigned to having absolutely nothing prepared, and knocks on the door.


End file.
